


Tea and Tannenbaum

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:52:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is soon off to Christmas at Duke's Denver, and then to Walbeach for New Year's. after a chance meeting with one Miss Vane, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Tannenbaum

**Author's Note:**

> Written for EleanorJane in the Yuletide 2008 Challenge.
> 
> (A brief note: The following takes place before The Nine Tailors and approximately one year after Have His Carcase.)

 

_Adeste Fideles, Laeti triumphantes, Venite, Venite, in Bethlehem; Natum videte, Regem angelorum, Venite adoremus, Dominum._

 

There were few things as clear, as flawless, as  _perfect_  as a male soprano.

The collection of boys and young men, most of whom too young to have been introduced to awkward limbs as well as vocal difficulties and embarrassments and thus were blissfully ignorant regarding the good fortune of their youth, were resplendent in their pristine choir robes. Their expressions were patently earnest as they sang, their mouths forming identical vowels as their tones soared off into different, perfectly harmonic, directions. But above the other voices, the soprano  _floated._ Peter was no stranger to ladies of the arts, and opera singers in particular, and as he sat in the pew at St. Paul's, he found himself considering the rich, soaring soprano of a  _prima donna,_ resonant with experience, and comparing it to what was the aural equivalent to a single beam of light cutting through clouds.

As each voice, perfectly pitched, reverberated off of the stone interior, beams of chilly December sunlight hit the ornate stained glass, filling the church with a riot of color - a visual feast for anyone willing to pay attention. Granted, admiring the stained glass meant pulling one's attention away from the service, and so anyone preferring to admire the aesthetics would likely have been doing so at some risk to his immortal soul, but Peter was reasonably certain he might be pardoned for this small misdemeanor. It was Christmas, after all, or nearly so - the very season for forgiveness and the pardoning of minor transgressions.

And as he thought of minor transgressions, his lordship chanced a peek at his pocket-watch, wondering just how long he could safely delay his departure for Duke's Denver in order to arrive as late as fashionably possible and leave again as soon as propriety allowed. Wimsey's best-case scenario placed him there in time for the Midnight Mass, and returning to London on or about the twenty-eighth. That was more than enough time to tolerate his sister in-law, though not nearly enough time spent with those members of his family who he did not take such satisfaction in vexing. He'd made arrangements to meet with friends in Walbeach for the New Year, and filling the days until the thirty-first would be no trouble at all.

Perhaps, he thought as the afternoon service drew to a close and parishioners stood, it would be an opportune time to make the rounds and pay a visit to one Miss Vane. He had heard faint rumors of her return to England's fair shores, but was still making good on that absurd promise not to write. However, the promise had not precluded him from appearing on her doorstep, provided he could determine which in the city was the new flat she'd acquired.

Then again, he thought with a faint grimace, perhaps not. Better to obey the spirit of the law, after all. His spirit balked, but for Wimsey the matter was decided; he would leave Miss Vane in peace, if peace was what she desired. And if her choice to traverse all of Europe were indicative of anything, it was a desire for a life free of Wimsey, at least for the nonce. And so he continued to watch, content to remain where he was, as people filtered through the pews and filed down the nave, clumsily re-bundling themselves in scarves and gloves, tugging their hats down and bracing themselves for the world beyond the stone walls, the late afternoon sunlight turning the world golden - deceptively so, for the brisk wind effectively extinguished any illusion of warmth.

He had just decided to return `round to his flat, entertaining the vain hope that Bunter had somehow experienced a complete and utterly uncharacteristic lapse in efficiency and  _hadn't_  already prepared him for the journey to Duke's Denver, when Peter's eye caught sight of a dark head that was, for the moment, hatless. He craned his neck and peered, striving to get a better look at the short dark hair, and the woman upon whose head the style resided. With the sort of patience one might find more appropriate in a child awaiting Father Christmas' arrival, Peter sprung to his feet and began winding his way through the crowd, murmuring a number of "Beg pardons" and at least one "Dashed clumsy of me, sorry!" before he found himself close enough to the mysterious parishioner to deduce that it was, in fact, Miss Vane. This, of course, left his lordship with another, more difficult question to answer: Now what?

The options were, of course, clear. He could call out to her, or he could opt not to call out at all, and leave the woman to her own designs, which seemed frequently to be her preference. But were he to be truly honest with himself, it was nothing but selfishness that made him wish to see her, to speak with her again. A tumble of words filled his throat whenever he saw this woman, and too often he subjected her to more mindless prattle than anyone ought ever to be exposed. It could count as a Christmas gift, he supposed; silence was meant to be golden, after all, and since Harriet was unlikely to accept anything but metaphorical gold, this was probably his sole opportunity to give her something she actually wanted. And so, when Harriet Vane turned just as his lordship had made the decision to hold his tongue, it seemed to him that Fortune and Misfortune both were smiling and sneering down at him, respectively.

"Peter?" She stopped so suddenly that she was jostled by the train of bodies making their way to the doors, and quickly stepped aside, out of the stream of people. "Peter," she said again, "is that you?"

Travel upon the continent agreed with Harriet Vane, and Peter could not help but note that she seemed incredibly refreshed. This surprised him not at all. "In the flesh and bones, I'm afraid," he replied - a jovial apology if ever there was.

"I had thought you'd be away from Town by now."

Her tone was even, her expression bland, but the neutrality of her words did nothing to hide the words themselves. She had  _hoped_  he'd be away from Town. His lordship exercised prudency in the name of goodwill towards men and kept this tidbit to himself. "Not just yet, I'm afraid. Thought I might get a spot of peace and quiet before diving headlong into familial festivities, what."

"I see." Again she paused. "In that case, I imagine you'll want to be leaving soon."

"My dear Harriet, I'm not sure whether you're that eager to be rid of me or if you're simply concerned that I might not arrive home in time for bell-ringing at the midnight service." He sent her a sidelong grin. "Allow me to put your mind at ease in regards to the latter - I have every intention of returning to the bosom of my family with ample time for celebration and revelry. In only a few hours' time, London will find itself short one silly ass and will be all the quieter for it." Color bloomed faintly at her cheeks, and Peter swore silently; he hadn't intended to embarrass her, for pity's sake.

"I hadn't intended to make it seem as if I were anticipating your departure, Peter. I only..." Harriet shook her head and blew out a sharp breath. "I'm only surprised to see you, that's all."

"Well, it is rather a large venue for such an incidental meeting. The surprise is mutual, I assure you." He paused only briefly, glancing around at the crowd now grown quite thin. "You know, it's some hours before I have to leave. If you haven't any prior engagements, perhaps we can enjoy a cuppa somewhere."

"On Christmas Eve? Peter, you're mad if you think we'll find anywhere still open."

"I say, is that all it'll take? How disappointing. I had thought madness would be a far more interesting route. Come now, I'm sure we'll find something; let us embrace optimism and Christmas miracles."

"It will be a miracle if we don't freeze," she riposted, but went to his side.

He tilted his head a bit, regarding her. Travel did indeed agree with Miss Vane. But then, his lordship was of the opinion that very little disagreed with Miss Vane. "I take it this means you'll join me."

"One's descent into madness should never be executed alone," was her studiously neutral reply.

"Executed?" He arched an eyebrow; it had not been that long ago Harriet Vane would never have made such a slip without a measure of discomfiture. "What a harsh turn of phrase you employ, Miss Vane."

She allowed herself a small smile. "I'm afraid it's an occupational hazard."

"Yes, I suppose it does seem to fit into your oeuvre, as it were. So, what say you? Shall we attempt our adventure on foot, or would a taxi be the wiser choice?"

"A taxi sounds far more prudent."

"Drier too, I s'pose. Very well - let's be on our way."

The taxi proved not only to be the drier choice, but also the quicker one - as it happened, the Savoy was still serving tea; it was the nearest option, and in a matter of minutes the two were lighting from the taxi and hurrying quickly into the warmth of the hotel. Once they were seated they contented themselves with small-talk: Peter inquired after Harriet's travels and Harriet shared a number of amusing anecdotes. Harriet had caught mention of a number of Peter's cases in the papers, and they spoke only briefly about that before one or both of them felt the subject steering too close to the incidents at Wilvercombe the previous year, and thus their dialogue found itself stalled as they sat, cradling warm teacups in their hands.

"You said you were going to Duke's Denver for Christmas," Harriet said suddenly, reaching for the easiest, most obvious topic of conversation, "didn't you?"

"That I did."

"You don't sound terribly enthused."

Peter didn't reply for a moment or two. "It's fair to say there are things I would rather be doing. I find my sister in-law's taste in company to be somewhat tiresome." He paused a beat. "I'm sure there are more diplomatic ways to phrase that."

"But none would be quite so succinct, I think." Harriet sipped at her tea.

Chuckling, Peter poured a thin stream of milk into his cup. "There will be a host of people, many of whom I do not know, milling about, and aside from a few bright, shining points, the whole affair will be crowded, loud, and tedious. But enough of my woes - it's a dashed boring subject anyway - how are you planning on spending the impending holiday?"

Here Harriet fell quiet, turning her teacup around in its saucer. The moment passed in deep introspection, and almost immediately, he wished he hadn't asked. But then she looked up, clear determination in her eyes, and Peter felt a swell of affectionate pride. "I'd rather thought I'd spend it catching up on some work," she said, finally. "I've a good bit more to do, and deadlines are looming."

"But surely that won't take the entire day?"

Harriet only lifted her shoulders in a graceful shrug. "It could well do."

"Dear Harriet," a sliver of exasperation had wound its way into his voice, "tell me you've at least decorated."

Here she laughed a little. "Whatever for?"

"Father Christmas will be sorely vexed if you haven't even a Christmas tree."

Her smile widened with genuine mirth. "I'm rather sure Father Christmas doesn't succumb to petty vexations, Peter. Besides, there's hardly room enough for one in my flat."

"There you go, being practical again."

Thankfully, the conversation ambled away from holiday plans and on towards more mundane topics. In time, the two found themselves full of warm tea and pleasant company, sharing a taxi from the Savoy to Harriet's flat in Mecklenburg Square. A light snow had begun to fall as she stepped out of the cab.

Peter's hand shot out, holding the door open before she could shut it. "I say, don't work too hard tomorrow."

"Of course not, Peter," she said with a solemnity that may or may not have been genuine. "I shall work just hard enough." He nodded once and pulled the cab door shut, waiting long enough to make sure Miss Vane was safely indoors before ordering the car off to his own abode, where Bunter was doubtless waiting so they might begin their journey across the countryside.

 

***

 

December 26 - Telegram sent from Miss Harriet Vane to Lord Peter Wimsey:

 

**PLEASE EXPLAIN TREE.**

 

December 26 - Telegram sent from Lord Peter Wimsey to Miss Harriet Vane:

 

**WHAT TREE.**

 

December 26 - Telegram sent from Miss Harriet Vane to Lord Peter Wimsey:

 

**3 FT POTTED FIR DECORATED ARRIVED YESTERDAY MORNING.**

 

December 26 - Telegram sent from Lord Peter Wimsey to Miss Harriet Vane:

 

**A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE.**

 

December 27 - Telegram sent from Miss Harriet Vane to Lord Peter Wimsey:

 

**NO MIRACLE YOUR NAME ON TAG.**

 

December 27 - Telegram sent from Lord Peter Wimsey to Miss Harriet Vane:

 

**SHALL TELL BUNTER STOP TAKING LIBERTIES.**

 

December 27 - Telegram sent from Miss Harriet Vane to Lord Peter Wimsey:

 

**IS A LOVELY LITTLE TREE.**

 

December 27 - Telegram sent from Lord Peter Wimsey to Miss Harriet Vane:

 

**HAPPY CHRISTMAS HARRIET.**

 


End file.
